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by RadarsTeddyBear



Series: Ducktober 2018 [12]
Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Angst, Disordered Eating, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fictober, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Series, Starvation, Whump, in which Donald Duck has a very low opinion of himself, prompt: starvation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-08-01 05:48:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16278935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RadarsTeddyBear/pseuds/RadarsTeddyBear
Summary: Donald's been kidnapped, and he hasn't been fed much in a while.





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**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: ["Starvation"](http://radarsteddybear.tumblr.com/post/169006603389/whumpreads-i-dont-draw-but-ive-been-thinking).

Donald lay on the cold, concrete floor.  He’d long ago lost track of how many days had past.  It couldn’t be that many if he were still alive. At least, he was pretty sure he was still alive.  His head was so fuzzy and muddled, he wasn’t quite sure.

Donald heard a clang from up the hall, and then footsteps.  Then his door swung open with a creak, and a wooden tray was placed on the floor with a clatter.  The door was shut once more and the footsteps retreated back to whence they came, another clang acting as a full-stop to the one thing that happened around here every day.

This could be Hell, he supposed.  It wasn’t anything like he’d envisioned--there was no fire, no tortured screams, no weapons.  No pain, really. Just...a whole lot of nothing.

Nah.  If this were Hell, Donald wouldn’t be this numb.  What was the point of torturing someone if they didn’t have enough energy to care?

Donald slowly dragged himself over to the tray and forced himself to sit up, propping himself against the wall.  He picked at the meager slice of bread and small cup of thin broth presented to him. Strangely, after however-many days having nothing more than this once a day, he didn’t feel very hungry.  Just tired and slow and cloudy and numb.

If he hadn’t already lost hope that Scrooge and Della would come to rescue him back at day 2 (Donald had lost track of the days soon after), he definitely would have lost it by now.  Aside from the obvious--Scrooge and Della had always preferred each other over Donald, Donald always messed things up more often than he did anything helpful, one less relative meant that much money saved--Donald found himself in a very, _very_ dangerous position behind a _lot_ of very, _very_ dangerous traps and obstacles.  

Of course, there was also the fact that he’d told them not to come back for him.   _Save yourselves.  Go on without me. I’m not worth it.  Just go._

Also, the artifact they were trying to find was very time-sensitive.  Which explained why Donald hadn’t seen any sign of his family thus far, though he was pretty darn sure they weren’t going to come back for him at all.

Which was fine.  Really. Donald hadn’t shed a single tear over his impending death and never seeing his family again, not even before his emotions had been starved away.  It would be better for everybody. Adventures would go far smoother, Scrooge and Della wouldn’t have to worry about him messing things up or getting himself into trouble all the time, Scrooge would be even richer.  Win-win all around.

Donald forced down the bread and broth and then dragged himself back to his spot away from the door.  He was tired. So tired. But there was some reason he wasn’t supposed to nap. He couldn’t _quite_ remember what it was, but out of respect for the Donald he had been however-many days ago, Donald stayed awake, tracing the lines in the walls with his eyes, trying to find pictures within them (but not being particularly successful; it seemed that his imagination had gone away along with his feelings).  

Donald heard another clang down the hall, and then more footsteps, but there were more than usual.  Faster. Two people, or three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten...wait, why was he counting?

As Donald mulled it over, he slowly became aware of the sound of his own name.  It kind of sounded like Della, and Uncle Scrooge was in there, too, but it was mostly Della.  Maybe he was dead after all...

The footsteps and the voices grew closer until they abruptly stopped.  Then someone (or something?) was banging on the door.

“Donald!”  The door shook like someone was trying to open it.  “Donald, are you in there?”

Donald lifted his head.  “Del? ‘Sthat you?” His voice was raspy, and his mouth felt too soft, like he’d just gotten a couple of cavities filled and the novocaine hadn’t worn off yet.

“Oh, thank goodness!” Donald heard.  “Just sit tight, Donnie! We’re going to get you out of here!”

Donald pushed himself up as a jolt of fear gave him a small burst of energy.  “Wait! What about the--”

There was another clang and more running footsteps, this time much more than just two sets.  Donald heard Uncle Scrooge curse under his breath, and Donald felt a pang of guilt. They shouldn’t be here.  They should be somewhere else-- _anywhere_ else.

“One minute, Donnie,” he heard Della say, and then the sound of flesh hitting flesh, and wood hitting flesh, and some yelling, and then it was quiet except for some panting.

“Ok, how are we going to open this door?” he heard Della say.

“That should be easy enough,” Uncle Scrooge said, and then Donald heard the doorknob start to jiggle.  Uncle Scrooge muttered, clearly annoyed, and Donald started to feel guilty again.

“Stand back, laddie!” Uncle Scrooge shouted, and then there were some very loud noises of Uncle Scrooge’s cane hitting against the doorknob.  Then there was a clunk as the knob fell to the floor, and a creak as the door swung open.

“Donnie!” Della cried, rushing to him.  “What did they do to you?”

Donald tried to shrug.  “Not much,” he said.

“I can certainly see that,” Uncle Scrooge said, looking over his nephew with a critical eye.  “Have ye eaten _anything_ in the last week and a half?”

“We would have been here sooner, but we couldn’t find you,” Della said, tears coming to her eyes.  “We should have…”

“We’ve got him back now, lass.  Now let’s get him home.”

Della hoisted her brother to his feet and let him lean on her as they led him out through a trail of unconscious guards.  

“What about the…” Donald wracked his brain trying to remember what it was they’d been looking for in the first place.  “...the shield?”

“The shield?” Uncle Scrooge asked.  “What of it?”

“Did you find it?” Donald asked.

“Of course not,” Della said.  “We started looking for you as soon as we got back to the plane.”

Donald frowned.  “But the sun only aligns every 600 years.  That means--”

“That means that we’ve got you back, and that’s what’s important,” Uncle Scrooge said.  Donald blinked as they stepped into the sunlight, and he felt a hat being placed on his head, which helped.  The rhythm of their footsteps lulled him into a sort of a stupor, and the next thing Donald knew, they were boarding the airplane.

Della gently sat him down in a seat and buckled him in as Uncle Scrooge retrieved some crackers and some water.

“This is all we have that won’t make you sick,” Uncle Scrooge said.  “Probably. Make sure you go easy.”

Donald took the crackers and the water, taking tiny bites and sips more automatically than anything else.  He wished they had a bed on the plane. Sitting up right now was not something his body particularly wanted to do.

When Donald’s eyes began to droop, Uncle Scrooge took the remaining crackers and the bottle from him.  “Rest now, lad. We’ll be home before you know it.”

And Donald did.


End file.
